


Turning Pages

by Everyday_Im_Narrating



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Argent family feels, Dealing With Loss, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Fluff, Gen, Kidfic, mentions of alcohol abuse in later chapters, parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-22 15:02:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8290078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everyday_Im_Narrating/pseuds/Everyday_Im_Narrating
Summary: The parents of Beacon Hills and their children learn to deal with losing part of the family. It's not always a smooth process.(This is more fluff than angst. Pinky swear.)





	1. Chris, Allison, and the dance recital

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I have entirely too many feelings about the Beacon Hills parents and how they and their kids deal with losing Parent Number Two. Next chapter will feature Mr Lahey (because it's me and I'm obsessed with that family), and I already have something planned for Melissa and the Sheriff.
> 
> (Doesn’t follow the canon timeline. In this story, Allison’s mother died when she had just turned six, and all of our kiddos go to school together since they were babies.)

Chris was pretty sure the dressing room behind the school auditorium was designed specifically to make dads feel uncomfortable. Along the benches sat mothers - aunts, sisters, even a grandmother - with kids of every gender, but he was the only _dad_ , and apparently, that meant he was out to kidnap all of the other children in the room. At least that’s how they were looking at him. Even though he was doing exactly the same thing they were.

Right now, that meant trying to paint glitter all over his daughter’s face while she let out a long, exhausting string of complaints.

“Dad, the blue doesn’t go on the eye.”

“Dad, the gold glitter goes in the _hair_.”

“Dad, that’s too much.”

“Dad, that’s not enough.”

Chris was in no way an expert, but he wasn’t a total klutz when it came to these things, either - unlike most fathers he’d met. Long before Victoria’s death, he had done his daughter’s hair and dressed her almost as often as her mother, even though there was no way to pretend he was half as skilled. He tried, though. The current result, while not spectacular in any way, was definitely not bad.

The fact that this was the first school function that Victoria wasn’t around for, however, seemed to be making everything exponentially worse.

“Lydia’s makeup looks prettier.”

“Erica’s bun is higher.”

“Malia’s shoes match her costume better.”

“Look, Kira’s mom brought _snacks_.”

Until the tiny plastic pot of glitter went flying into the air, sprinkling the floor and Chris’s jeans with sparkly pink.

“Dad!” Allison squealed indignantly. “You made a mess!”

He sighed. He wasn’t going to fight with Allison. She was getting ready for a recital she’d been incessantly rehearsing for. They could talk - calmly - on the way back home.

“There, you’re all set.”

“No, I’m not.” She stomped her foot stubbornly, and Chris’s resolve to stay calm started to waver.

“What’s wrong?” He bit out the syllables.

“Everything! My hair’s ugly, my makeup is all wrong, my shoes don’t match and I’m gonna look ugly on the stage ‘cause of _you_!”

He needed a pause. Or a shot. Or at the very least a thirty-second break from his hissy-fitting kid that he was trying very hard not to yell at in public.

“Allison.”

“You’re not a mom! Only moms know how to do this stuff.”

And then it seemed like all the mothers, stepmothers, aunts, grandmas, sisters in the dressing room were looking at him in a mixture of smugness and pity, and he physically felt it the moment his patience vanished.

“You know what?” Chris barely recognized his own voice, low and angry like his own father’s used to be. Nor did he entirely register having grabbed Allison’s arm and shoving the makeup bag into her hand, pushing until her little fingers curled around it. “There’s a whole damn room full of moms here, and apparently, all of them agree with you that I’m doing a shitty job. So go ask _them_ to fix your face and whatever the hell else you think is wrong, and see if they can take pictures, too, 'cause I’m done.”

Chris released her arm and she stumbled backwards; he avoided her eyes on purpose as he walked off the dressing room just as the dance teacher was starting to pull the kids together.

His ass had barely touched the seat when the regret started sinking in.

Yes, Allison was being a brat. But he shouldn’t have spoken to her like that - like he didn’t want to be there in the first place. Not that the Beacon Hills Elementary School’s end-of-the-year dance recital was his favorite place to be on a Saturday morning, but Allison had been looking forward to it for months and months, and now, knowing her, she’d barely enjoy it at all.

When the PA system proudly announced the first graders and they walked onto the stage, Chris recognized his little girl’s fight face instantly. Her chin pointing up. Eyes straight ahead. Lips pursed together. Little fists balled up at her sides.

Damn it. She was supposed to be having fun with this, not struggling to get through it without crying.

The theme of Allison’s presentation was music through the ages; Chris knew before they announced it because she had been telling him all about it, practicing with him at home. Right now, on stage, the teacher’s voice guided the kids through decade after decade, and for a bunch of six-year-olds, the whole thing looked pretty damn impressive.

Allison waltzed with Stiles for the 1920s, still grumpily determined, little knuckles going white from how tightly she squeezed his hand and his shoulder. After the 30s’ Jitterbug came a 40’s rockabilly dance, and Chris breathed out a sigh of relief upon seeing his little girl’s face melt into a giggle as Stiles stumbled over his own feet and nearly fell over. (Nearly. The kid held in there. Chris was pretty proud of him too.)

By the time the colorful lights came on and all of the children were doing the 70s’ YMCA, Allison seemed to be fully enjoying it, the tension gone from her shoulders as she danced with a bright smile. Her eyes kept darting all over the audience, probably searching for Chris, but with the lights turned all the way off, he doubted she could see him. Still, she didn’t miss a move. For the 1980s, they all donned their pairs of plastic sunglasses as part of a heavy metal song came on - and there was something hillarious about the idea of a first graders’ mosh pit forming in the middle of the stage.

The same annoying Britney Spears song he always heard on the radio finally ended, finishing the last decade, and all of the children posed together for the several, _several_ camera flashes coming from the audience. Chris was absolutely not embarrassed of being one of the loudest parents cheering, or of snapping what was probably the largest amount of photos during the entire thing. His baby deserved it.

It seemed like an eternity before the PA system announced that the second graders would be performing in twenty minutes, which was the cue for everyone to leave the stage. Chris headed straight to the changing room, and from then it was a matter of seconds until a sparkly little creature was jumping into his arms.

“Ally!” He exclaimed, lifting her up off the ground and twirling her to make her giggle. “You did great!”

“Did you really like it? Did you see Stiles trip over?” She sounded completely exhillarated, slightly out of breath as she held onto his shoulders and rambled on. “It was _so_ funny. I knew he was gonna do that. But he didn’t fall on his butt! And I know I messed up the _Blue Suede Shoes_ , but everything else was cool, wasn’t it?”

Instead of putting his little girl down right away, Chris just held her tighter and went to sit on the bench, kissing her temple affectionately.

“You were awesome, princess. I’m proud of you.” Both for the dance itself and for not letting their fight ruin the experience for her.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He took a deep breath, wrinkling his nose at the lingering smell of extra-strength hairspray. “And I’m sorry I yelled at you before. It wasn’t the time to fight.”

Allison nodded against his shoulder, quiet for a moment as her fingers started drawing random patterns over her father’s shirt. When she spoke again, her voice was softer.

“Sorry I said you messed everything up.”

This was probably a conversation they should have in private. But it would be a long drive home, and this way, Chris got to talk to his daughter while nicely cuddled up with her, instead of talking to the backseat of his car while having to split his attention between Allison and the road. He knew neither of them would want to wait until they got home.

“I’m not mad anymore, but I wanna know why you said it.” He said quietly. “Is it 'cause you miss your mom?”

Allison nodded.

“She always did my hair and painted my face. And she brought jelly beans to eat with us in the dressing room.” Chris felt his baby girl shiver in his arms. “I wish she was here.”

“Me too, baby.”

Victoria’s death had been terribly hard on both of them, but definitely worse for Allison; Chris knew what it felt like to be in her shoes. He’d lost his mother, too, and he’d been nine; even then, he’d been honestly miserable for a long time before he started feeling something close to normal again. Ally was six. It had to be even harder.

At least he was trying his absolute best to handle it better than his own father had.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“You think Mom would’ve liked the dance?”

The vulnerability in Allison’s voice damn near killed him.

“She’d have loved it. I guarantee it. She was always so proud of you.”

More silence. Most of the kids and their parents were starting to leave, some of them waving goodbye to Chris and Allison, who were still on the bench with her little face hidden against his neck. The second graders started coming in to finish getting ready, and Chris was about to get up when Allison spoke again.

“You said you weren’t gonna take pictures.”

The pang of guilt in his stomach was familiar by now.

“I didn’t mean that, I was just mad. I’m sorry, Ally.”

“Did you take them?”

“Of course I did.”

Chris couldn’t see Allison’s face in the position they were in, but he knew her voice well enough to be sure she was smiling.

“Can I see?”

“How about we go have lunch somewhere? I’ll show you all of the pictures when we get there.”

“Can we go to McDonald’s?”

Chris laughed and nodded, which was Allison’s cue to give him a big kiss on the cheek and hop off his lap.

As they left hand in hand, the fight from before completely forgotten, he was pretty sure Victoria was somewhere near, smiling proudly at them both.


	2. Sean, Camden, Isaac, and the skinned knee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little more angsty, but nothing too bad, I promise. CW for alcohol abuse.
> 
> (Please note that this is all told from Sean Lahey's point of view, and I don't condone any of his behavior in the fic or in canon.)

It’s funny how one day you go to bed with your wife, talk about your two boys - the four-year-old who’s just had a haircut and looks kind of hillarious, the nine-year-old who got in trouble at school for punching a bully - and fall asleep reasonably happy, and then the next day you wake up and she doesn’t.

By funny, Sean means entirely unfair and panic-inducing.

Fast forward to four months later - four months of a lot of crying and yelling, two increasingly whiny children, and several bottles of Jack - and here he was, at the kitchen table, taking care of some paperwork, while Camden watched TV and Isaac played outside with the neighbor’s kid. Everything was reasonably okay.

Scratch that - it was _stable_. There had been no major hissy fits lately. Work was fine. He’d managed to sell some really unnecessarily expensive coffins, much fancier than the one Helena was buried in. And Jack was on sale at the grocery store, 30% off. He couldn’t complain, really.

Life was mostly under control.

Granted, he wasn’t as involved in his children’s lives as he used to be, but who could blame him? Losing Helena also meant losing half of their income, which in turn meant he had to work twice as much as he used to. He couldn’t work _and_ look after the boys. Not to mention Isaac was always moaning about something or other, and Camden constantly got in trouble at school, and it was so completely exhausting, he felt like giving up most of the time.

Sometimes he lost his temper. He’d always had trouble controlling it, even as a kid, but it got worse and worse over time. He couldn’t help it, really; one moment the boys were screaming at each other over something ridiculously stupid like the TV remote or a toy, and the next, each of them had a black eye. Hell, if their age difference weren’t so big, they’d probably be giving _each other_ the same bruises! Camden just never hit Isaac because he was six years older. But Sean was their father, and he had zero patience for Helena’s more mellow ways of disciplining their kids. They had to learn somehow. Might as well make it fast.

It wasn’t all bad. They were good kids. Smart kids, too. Isaac was four and could already spell all of his classmates’ names. Camden was the best swimmer on his team. They’d be good people when they grew up, if only Sean kept teaching them the right way to go. His parents had always said, _“what your mom and dad don’t teach you with love, the world will teach you later, and it won’t be half as kind”._

But he was human too, and entirely exhausted. Maybe he should get back in the game and start dating again, get his mind off of all the trouble at home. Or at least get the pretty Hale girl to babysit for a night so he could go out and get drunk without having to keep hiding the bottle. (Once he’d told Isaac it was apple juice. It backfired horribly; the kid loved apple juice and very nearly took a swig from the bottle. Would have actually done it if Sean hadn’t stopped him. Later, Camden went to the grocery store down the street and bought a jug of the real thing for his brother with his own allowance.)

It was a Saturday afternoon, though, and the best thing he could do was keep the glass full and his head empty. He had no energy for anything else.

(In a conversation with Camden’s teacher at a parent-teacher meeting, he’d ranted about this for a few minutes, and the pity in that woman’s face was only slightly less humiliating than the condescending tone in which she’d suggested that he go see a therapist. That was when he decided never to talk about this shit again, ever, to anyone. He could handle it on his own just fine.)

(Except that he couldn’t. Dear God, this parenting thing wasn’t a job made for one.)

(He’d just have to wing it.)

He was already slightly dizzy when Isaac showed up at the front door, whimpering like a kicked puppy. It only took a glance to identify the cause - a big, bright-red scrape that took up almost his entire left knee, trickling blood all the way down his little leg and into his sock.

In Sean’s mind, he stood up instantly. In reality, his legs were a little wobbly, and it took him several seconds of holding onto the edge of the table; just enough time for Camden to get up off the couch and hurry to his brother before Sean could.

“How’d you get that?” His tone was so worried, it sounded like Isaac was dying. Kids could be so dramatic. “Did you trip and fall or did Jackson push you?”

Isaac didn’t respond immediately, just wrapped his skinny arms around Camden’s waist. Camden was more patient about it than Sean would have been, stroking through the little one’s overgrown hair until he had calmed down enough to talk, not pushing until he was ready.

Now, _Camden_ was going to be a good parent someday.

“We were playing catch an’ I fell on the street.” Isaac sniffled. “And it really hurts.”

“Of course it hurts, dummy, you left a piece of your knee on the sidewalk.”

“I did?” Isaac looked down at his knee, sounding panicked, until Camden let out a laugh and ruffled his hair.

“Let’s wash it up before your sock turns red and doesn’t match the other, c'mon.”

Sean followed them halfway to the bathroom and just watched. Camden could handle it. He was such a smart kid. Ten years old and already knowing how to care for his four-year-old brother. When Sean was ten years old, the only thing he looked after was the family dog, Chauncey, and even Chauncey sometimes went a little too long without his kibble.

He watched as Camden helped Isaac get rid of his socks and shoes and sit down on the sink, his knee under the faucet. The boy looked more scared now than when he’d shown up at the door.

“Cam. Cam, make it warm. Please. Cold water’s gonna hurt.”

“No, cold water’s gonna numb you down so it hurts _less_.”

“Cam! No - Camden!”

Isaac squeaked at the same time as Camden turned on the faucet, guiding the water down with his palm so the pressure wouldn’t hurt. Sean wouldn’t have thought of that. Where did this boy learn all these things? Isaac was holding onto his brother’s shirt like his life depended on it, breathing hard and fast until the injury was all clean and there were no bits of sidewalk on it, and even through all of his whining and complaining, Camden didn’t say a word. Actually, that’s not true - he did turn to ask Sean where the first aid kit was, like it was completely natural, like he didn’t even expect his father to help out at all except with that small piece of information.

Whether that was a sign of intelligence and independence or terrible parenting was a question he’d rather not ask himself.

“It’s gonna sting a little, okay?” Camden opened up the box (why was it so much _emptier_ than the last time Sean had seen it?) and picked up the bottle of antiseptic, settling Isaac with an arm around his waist. The younger boy didn’t complain this time, just shut his eyes tight while his brother sprayed a generous amount of the liquid over his red knee, then breathed out a sigh of relief when it was over; by that time, the tear tracks on his cheeks were dry and his eyes were only slightly puffy. Once Camden had carefully applied ointment and a bandage to the injury and secured it with micropore, Isaac was already eager to go back outside and play.

“Sure you’re not gonna fall down again? That’s gonna hurt like a bitch.”

Sean was going to let the curse word go unnoticed this time. If Camden could look after his brother, he could swear a little, too.

“I’ll be more careful this time. Promise.”

“Yeah, I don’t wanna have to fix your other knee.” He said it with affection, patting Isaac’s head; it brought out a mischievous little smile on the younger one’s face.

“What if I fall down again?”

“Get back up, duh.”

“ _Caaaaam_.”

“I’ll patch it up, just go play and stop being a dork.”

Isaac stuck out his tongue pointedly at Camden, but a few seconds later he was already heading out the door, the skinned knee barely slowing him down at all.

Meanwhile, Sean was still leaning against the wall, his head clearing far too slowly for his liking. Shaking his head at himself in annoyance, he made his way back to the kitchen, but not before Camden - dammit, _Camden_ \- could come out of the bathroom and look at him in a mixture of worry and exasperation. (Was he supposed to let a ten-year-old scold him?)

“What?” He asked defensively to the boy standing next to him as he plopped back down on the chair. “Lose something?”

It took Camden a long while to answer, looking from the glass to the bottle to the half-finished paperwork on the table. In the end, he just sighed deeply and shook his head.

“Nevermind.” He mumbled, and if Sean had a little bit more energy, he’d go after him and ask him what was going on. Now, though, even as his son curled up on the couch to watch TV with a sullen look on his face, all he could think about was how peaceful and quiet it was like this, when Isaac was outside and Camden was silent and he could almost fool himself into thinking he had everything under control.

Later, he would order pizza for dinner and let the boys stay up late, and they’d get over it. Maybe even go play upstairs in Camden’s room and leave him alone.

Hopefully. He’d be fine in the morning.

(He’d be fine at some point.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it’d be interesting to look into Mr Lahey as a character and the family dynamics shortly after Mrs Lahey died. Am I too invested in this family? Yes. Am I planning on stopping, ever? Hell no.


End file.
